Brand New World
by Snoweylily
Summary: Bond was never quite sure what he was; he only knew that his mother was the same and despite all of her 'accidents', she never really stayed dead. He didn't either, when his time came. He lived to see the rise and fall of World War 2, watched as Vietnam got invaded and the Berlin Wall fell, and kept coming back with a new body, a new face, but the same love of Queen and country.
1. James Bond

**Welcome to my 30th fic!**_ (she says all the while knowing there are others still due to be updated)_

It's James Bond, a mash-up between the novels and movies, and is told in the 3rd Person POV. The plot is centred on Bond, _obv_., and his life if things were just that *little* bit different and resurrection really _was_ a hobby of his. So I guess you could say he's _almost_ a Timelord? Sort of? I don't know, the point is, he regenerates in his own unique Bond-ish way, and **I hope you guys enjoy and hit the subscribe button!**

Rachel :)

* * *

**Chapter 1**

James Bond was born on the 11th November 1917, a stormy Sunday in the highlands of Scotland exactly one year after the Canadian forces captured the last of the Regina Trench from the Germans, and one year before the First World War ended, leaving fourteen million dead and over twenty million injured.

He always found that rather fitting, considering what he could do.

His father, Andrew Bond of Glencoe, took one look at the silent bundle and sneered. His mother, a beautiful Swiss woman named Monique Delacroix, held him even tighter and cried.

It wasn't until he was much older that he realised he had been stillborn.

Not that he ever let _that_ stop him.

James Bond was never quite sure what he was; he only knew that his mother was the same and everyone else was not, and that despite all of her _accidents_ when his father was around, she never quite stayed dead. Not even the time she supposedly fell off the roof and her son spent an entire week by her bedside before she woke up, her eyes a darker colour than before, something entirely different about her nose, and the blonde locks he had inherited from her nowhere in sight. She was still beautiful, though, was always beautiful to him, no matter how many times she transformed. She was still his mother no matter what, and promised to never leave him even when mangled and unrecognisable and bedridden for months on end.

When he turned eleven years old and was told that his parents had been killed in a freak climbing accident, he waited… and waited… and waited…

But she never came back.

The maids and servants took pity on him, watching as he stared out the window day after day, and told him that it was okay, that she was in a better place now, that everything would work itself out.

He couldn't tell them the truth, of course not, his father had long since drilled into him never to let his _ability_ be found out, so he nodded and smiled and cried and _waited_.

Then their bodies were recovered.

And James Bond wondered, for the first time ever, if perhaps there was a limit on this whole regeneration thing.

Either way, it allowed him to fight for King, Queen, and country without the fear of being found out. Double 0's had a notoriously short life expectancy, after all, but when you were just a title and not a name... well. No one really noticed the similarities. But that wouldn't happen for another decade yet.

Back in the present, his parents are dead, he's now an orphan, and isn't that just wonderful?

* * *

It didn't take long to find a relative, his father's sister, an aunt he had never even heard of before currently living in Kent. Miss Charmian Bond was strict but kind, and never questioned why he flinched every time she rose her voice, though she did take to speaking in softer tones soon after. He completed his early education, got accepted in Eton College at age 12 on a scholarship where he was mocked and bullied by two future prime ministers and a prince. He lasted two halves before getting drunk on cheap whiskey and kissing a maid in a broom closet. They got caught, of course, and while she was given a harsh scolding, he was told to pack his bags. Aunt Charmain had picked him up without a word, though disapproval marred her pretty features, and he was told he would be attending Fettes College in Scotland, his father's school, and if he got himself sent down she would personally skin him alive herself before sending him back.

He wondered briefly if she knew of his ability.

But James Bond had learned his lesson. He kept to himself, established some firm friendships among the traditionally famous athletic circle, and threw all his excess energy into wrestling and judo. He was smart, having being fluent in English, German, and French by age 10, and he studied enough to keep himself in the Top Five of his year.

He was 16 when Aunt Charmain was killed in an automobile accident.

* * *

He attended her funeral, completed his final exams, hung around just long enough to tell his friends not to expect contact anytime soon, and then used some of his inheritance to buy a one-way ferry ticket to France.

It was there that he first learned about love.

He knew from a young age that while his mother cared deeply for his father, his father did not feel the same. Asides from them, there was the head maid who had a husband though he never saw them together, and Aunt Charmain, who had remained single until her death, so he had never really thought about love and relationships until suddenly there was a beautiful blonde standing in front of him in a café and asking in lilting French if he wanted to buy her a coffee.

It was also in Paris that he learned about heartbreak.

So, he packed his meagre bags once more and left, catching the first train he saw.

* * *

He ended up in Geneva, Switzerland, _of all places_, and immediately his thoughts turned to his mother and of her life here before he met that bastard of a man who called himself her husband. He wandered the city, taking in everything, eating authentic Swiss cuisine and speaking fluently in both German and French with the locals. He found a small apartment with cheap rent in a bad side of town, but that didn't bother him because he was well-versed in martial arts and knew how to handle himself. He explored every place he was allowed into, and even a few that he wasn't, before finally coming to a halt in front of a large peach-coloured building with stone bricks and large windows and even taller pillars.

The University of Geneva.

James Bond didn't know what he wanted to do with his life, he honestly didn't think he'd make it past childhood between his father's heavy hand and his own penchant for finding trouble. But now, here he was, 16 years old in his mother's hometown, older and taller and curiouser that he ever thought he'd be.

He decided to enrol.

University was both _exactly_ like and _nothing_ like he'd thought it'd be. He attended every lecture he could, psychology and law and world languages, made his way through the college library at a terrifying speed, and could usually be found collapsed on top of a textbook or downing coffee underneath the old marble arches in the courtyard. He found new friends, though never got quite as close to them as he used to, and made a name for himself on both the rowing and fencing teams. He had lost his Scottish accent many months before, could pull off being a local with some concentration, and lived life to the fullest.

As with everything else, however, he soon became bored.

* * *

When summer arrives and his exams finished, he contemplated returning to England, but the thought of that dreary familiar place depressed him. Scotland was no longer his home, he had been quite turned off France for some time, and Geneva was slowly beginning to lose its charm. He decided to head east instead, into Austria.

It was there that he met Hannes Oberhauser.

Initially weary of the man, they soon bonded over their shared love of sport and danger, and James Bond couldn't help but see him as a sort of father figure. The older man, in turn, treated him like a son. He was a realist, like himself, and had lost many friends in the Great War, and even more because of mountain climbing. But still, he continued to do what he loved, and his zest for life was undefeated.

On the mountainside of Kitzbühel, Oberhauser taught him how to ski.

He took to it like he took to all sports; quickly, obsessively, and _perilously_.

He started opening up to the man about his life, something he'd never done before, and found himself talking of his childhood as they sat out in the cold sun with blistered hands and aching legs. He told him of his father, of his aunt, of France and his new start, of heartbreak and Switzerland, and of here, now, as he chased his latest adrenaline-packed adventure, needing the rush, the pleasant buzz, the hazardous _danger_ in order to feel something, everything, _anything at all._

The Austrian remained silent during his tales, understanding and sympathetic, but never, not once, ever _pitying_. He told him to learn from the past, to embrace his mistakes and study them, to never forget but to move on nevertheless.

"Do you intend to live your life out with a load of guilt?" He asked one night, passing him the bottle of Jameson's, "Will you continually blame yourself whenever things go wrong? If you go on like this, son, the past _will_ finally destroy you".

"What do you suggest I do?"

Oberhauser caught his gaze and pointed at the mountains in front of them.

"Climb them" He said, "and don't _ever_ look back".

James Bond became quite proficient at skiing. He was good, _really_ good, and Oberhauser was an even better instructor. He entered a few small league competitions and won, entered a few more important ones, and won those too. He was teased and taunted by fellow skiers, skiers with fancy equipment and designer sports gear and names and titles he couldn't pronounce. He put up with them, for the most part, reminding himself that the last time he'd taken on his bullies he'd gotten himself kicked out of school. He was better than all of them put together, anyway.

But still, they made fun of his skis and clothes and his style, or rather, _lack of it_, and he resented them for it. They, in turn, took every opportunity to make a fool of him.

It all came to a head one faithful morning at the end of summer when they dared him to ski down Harakiri.

And like an _idiot_, he accepted.

* * *

Having spend a few months practising, James Bond had gotten cocky. And despite all warnings from Oberhauser to keep his cool and ignore the taunts, despite his own past experiences with giving into his anger and lashing out, he arrogantly believed that he could not only best his tormentors, but he could take on the steepest skiing slope in all of Austria in the process.

They met him at the base of the mountain, so early it was still dark, and laughed and jeered as he made his way to the lifts.

By the time he reached the top, they were no longer laughing.

The Harakiri ski slope had gotten its name for a reason, after all, as anyone who risked it without the proper training were indeed suicidal. It had a vertical drop of almost 400 meters, had a length of more than three times that, and a bad reputation that was known by every professional skier in the world.

A thick blanket of snow had fallen during the night, and as James Bond trudged through it in order the reach the highest point of the mountain, he couldn't help but admire the spectacular beauty of the death trap before him. The sun was just beginning to rise over the valley, and white speckled evergreens glistened along either side of the trail.

Once in position, the no-longer smiling group of teens begged him to turn around, to come back, to _stop, man, for the love of god, stop!_

He put on his goggles, and without looking back, pushed himself over the edge.

* * *

He knew immediately he'd made a mistake.

* * *

Flying down the trail, the wind bit into his skin and burned his cheeks while the sun reflected off the snow and half-blinded him. For the first hair-raising mile of the descent, he maintained control with nothing except a cheap pair of skis and the will to stay alive. His mind was clear, _very_ clear, every fight of flight instinct he had kicking in and screaming at him to _stop_. The closeness of death sharpened his reactions, adrenaline pumping through his veins, the absolute _terror_ feeding him like a drug as he passed the half way mark and narrowly avoided a large fir. He began to grin, despite it all, thinking that he was right, he could _do_ this, he was going to _win_ the dare and he was going to _wipe the grin off of their smug faces!_

It was far too late when he saw the clump of trees directly in front of him, half-covered by the snow and too close for him to stop, his skis slipping in the fresh ice and spinning and his hands quickly coming up to protect his face and a startled yell bubbling its way out of his throat and-

James Bond didn't remember much, after that.


	2. James

**Chapter 2**

He slowly came to, head peculiarly fuzzy and chest exceedingly warm, with his very soul _screaming_ at him in pain. His entire body felt _wrong_, like he had been shrunk and squeezed inside someone else's skin, and every muscle and every bone _ached_. He didn't know how long he lay there, unable to move or speak or even just open his eyes as he tried to recall what had happened. He remembered only flashes; heavy boots trudging through the fresh snow, laughing and jeering from faceless bodies on either side of him, and then piercing wind and cutting ice and pain_ and pain and pain and-_

* * *

When he next regained his senses, he felt stiff, achy, like he'd been lying in the same position for far too long. He briefly considered the idea that he was dead, but asides from that being rather impossible for him, he also believed that heaven wouldn't have as much pain and hell would surely have more. He drifted, time and place becoming irrelevant, the only constants being the throbbing in his head and the pure exhaustion in his bones.

* * *

Eventually, he became aware of a faint humming at his side, a wordless tune that would start and stop intermittently without any reason or rhyme. He began to latch onto that voice, dredging up memories from long ago when he would remain bedridden with the flu and his mother would sing lowly to help him sleep.

Could this be his mother?

The next time he woke, he forced himself to focus, pouring all his non-existent energy into opening his eyes, eyes that felt heavy and strange and just _wrong_ and-

The woman sitting next to him smiled, softly, sweetly, just like his mother used to.

Had she finally come back for him?

She didn't look like herself, or like any of her past selves, but that didn't mean a thing, not to them, so maybe this _was_ her, maybe she really _had_ survived all those years ago and was biding her time for whatever reason that would surely be a _good_ reason and now here she was returning for him so they could be a _family_ again and live without the fear of his _father_ and-

There was no recognition in her eyes.

She was beautiful, and warm, and _oh so_ _kind_, but there was no realisation in her gaze, no flicker of motherly love or maternal concern and suddenly there's a sharp stab in the base of his stomach, so sharp that tears form in the corner of his eyes and leave hot trails running down his cheeks. The beautiful woman, _the stranger_, frowned at him as her humming trailed off, mistaking his grief for pain.

Which, yea, okay, he felt that too, but not as intensely as _this_.

He wanted to ask who she was, and _where_ he was, and what had happened to lead him here, but his voice seemed to have vanished and his limbs refused to cooperate. Everything felt _foreign_ somehow, like something crucial was missing, and for a brief moment he panicked, thinking that he'd managed to lose a limb thanks to that stupid stunt he pulled and _hang on_, where had those teenagers gone and how did this stranger find him and just _where the hell_ _was Oberhauser?!_

He felt a cool cloth being placed on his forehead as the quiet humming started up once more, and before he knew it, he was gone.

* * *

When he next woke up, and actually properly _did _wake up, he could feel a difference immediately.

To begin with, the pain was mostly gone, having retreated to the back of his mind like a dull ache, always there but much easier to ignore. Secondly, the humming had stopped completely and he could hear muted movements coming from what sounded like a kitchen. And lastly, not only could he open his eyes with relative ease, but he could also wiggle his fingers and twitch his toes.

It was only a small leap from that to moving his entire limbs, and thankfully, _entire_ limbs was what he had, counting four separate appendages as he tried to regain control of his own body.

Slowly shifting, he managed to get both arms underneath him and stable enough to _lift_, until suddenly, he was leaning back against the headboard of a bed and staring at the small yet cosy room around him.

He didn't recognize anything, not that he had been expecting to, but the realisation still brought with it a sense of unease. Pushing it away, he turned his gaze back down to himself, apathetically taking account of the myriad of bandages lining both arms and four of his fingers.

Decidedly _small_ fingers, he noted with a frown, holding up his hand to inspect them. Those weren't _his_ fingers, they couldn't be, they were far too small and bony to be his own sport-calloused hands.

His arms were different too, he found, shorter and somewhat stockier. The same was true for his legs, when he finally got up the courage to push the blankets aside, and they were also just as heavily bandaged as the rest of him. The stretches of skin that he _could_ see, were splotched with yellow and green bruises, mostly faded but still very much there.

He was _different_.

His entire body was different, like someone had taken him apart and put him back together incorrectly, as if he had lost all of his own limbs and another's were sown back on, almost like he had-

* * *

_Like he had regenerated._

* * *

He felt a bubble of panicked laughter burst from his throat.

He had wondered how he'd managed to survive the fall.

Turns out, he _hadn't_.

* * *

A noise at the door grabbed his attention, and he quickly turned only to see the humming woman standing there, a tray in her hands.

They stared at each other in surprise.

"Hallo" She eventually said, smiling at him.

He cautiously smiled back, "Hallo".

_His voice was different too._

"Wie heißen Sie?"

His- His name? She wanted his name?

"My name is- I- I mean, ich- ich heiße James".

_What sort of voice was that?_

"James" She repeated, frowning, "Sie sind kein Österreicher?"

"Nein" He replied, finally recognising his new accent with a _pang_, "Ich bin Schottisch".

_And wasn't that just ironic?_

* * *

On the tray was a simple meal of soup, bread, and cheese, but he devoured it within seconds, gaining a rather startled look from the woman- _Helga, she had called herself_ -before she stood to get him more. He briefly remembered the same side effect in his mother every time she'd changed, watching in awe as she emptied every plate the cook had given her. He felt another spasm in his heart, longing for the home he had lost half a decade before, though if Helga noticed the tears in his eyes, she thankfully refrained from mentioning them.

He quickly found out over his fourth meal that it had been Helga's brother that had found him, half buried in the snow at the foot of the Harakiri ski slope. He'd thought that a skier had forgotten a jacket and had intended on returning it to the lost and found, before he realised that there was a person still wearing the coat. One panicked call to Helga later had them both digging out the snow with plastic shovels, careful not to hit James himself, before pulling him out the rest of the way and carrying him back to their cabin. He'd been half-dead, frozen stiff with the cold, and had multiple lacerations covering both arms and parts of his legs. Some had even required stitches, hence the myriad of bandages, and as far as Helga and her brother were concerned, James was bloody well lucky to be alive.

He tried desperately not to snort at that statement, knowing full well the strange looks he'd get in return, and considered _them_ lucky to not have found him before the whole reforming-with-an-entirely-new-body part was done.

They probably wouldn't have reacted quite so generously if they had.

It was three days later before he was well enough to stand by himself, and another two before he could walk on relatively steady feet. It took another day and a half after that before he was brave enough to look at himself in the mirror.

He was _young_, was his first thought, staring in shock at his shorter, stockier frame, closer to 15 or 16 rather than the 17-and-a-half years he actually was. He looked like he should still be in _Fettes_, rather than a university graduate. The eyes that stared back at him weren't his either, less round and more brown. His hair was dark, his nose larger and his mouth smaller and his eyebrows much _much_ thicker.

_Huh_.

"Ist etwas los?" Helga asked, poking her head around the bathroom door, but he quickly shook his head.

There was nothing _wrong_, per say, it was all just… very very _different_.

* * *

He left the kind siblings two weeks later with a small rucksack of food and clothes and a post office to contact them at if he should ever need to. Returning to where he had stayed with Oberhauser was futile; the man had left Austria not soon after James Bond's 'disappearance' without leaving a forwarding address, so he continued on, back into Switzerland. He got more than a few odd looks from passing strangers, much to his chagrin, as they only saw a young boy travelling alone, but he made it back to his flat in Geneva without much trouble. Picking the old and rusty lock hadn't taken him long, and within an hour he had collected everything he needed and was on a train northbound.

James wasn't entirely sure where he was going, but knew he couldn't return to his old life, not now, with a new face, a new body, a new _age_. But his Scottish accent was as thick as ever, though not from the same region he had grown up in, and he found himself returning to Britain without realising. Once there, he made his way to Kent, back to Aunt Charmain's house which she had left him in her will. The key was still hidden under the doorstep, he soothed the neighbours with a charming grin and the promise of being close friends with 'young Mr Bond', and _yes_ it really was ironic that they were _both_ called James, now, wasn't it?

_So._

He had a place to live.

He had enough money to get by.

And he even had a college degree, technically speaking.

Now, he just needed to restart his life and move on.

* * *

He found himself drifting down to the coast towards Chatham Dockyard, where navy ships were being built and officers in crisp white uniforms walked past and James,_ just James_, decided that being a soldier was as fine a career as any. And besides, it wasn't as if he didn't know how to fight and by now he was fluent in four major European languages, so really, he already had a head start in the military anyway, so why not join?

He enlisted using his real name and a fake age, using his original birth certificate to prove that he was 19 and not actually 17 like his current body suggested. He was accepted, and trained, and put on a Royal Navy Destroyer with a pat on the back and a "don't let those Nazi's scare you, lad!" before being sent off to god-knows-where.

But James was a good soldier.

A _really_ good soldier.

He excelled at every task he was given, rising through the ranks at an astonishing speed, one that was miraculous for his young age, fake though it may be. He quickly realised that he was _good_ at this, he was good at protecting people, at fighting, at defending Queen and country, but more importantly, he realised that he _liked_ doing it too.

He risked his life for his fellow crewmen, throwing himself in front of bullets and grenades and, on one terrifying occasion, and actual real-life _shark_. He was good at risking his life because, _well_, he knew he'd have another one after. And as horrifying and painful and _sickening_ the whole regeneration process was, if it meant that one more sailor got to home to see his kids? Then it was worth every single agonizing moment.

It didn't take long to make a name for himself.

But with fame, came rumours.

His superiors were no longer in awe when they heard of his latest selfless act, and hushed whispers in ship corners became less and less about his patriotism and dedication and more about his reckless endangerment of himself and others. Once the word 'suicidal' was thrown into the mix, James knew he had to get out. So he thought long and hard about his future, considered all his possible options, and waited until 'Corporal' became 'Lieutenant' became 'Commander' and 'Victory is Ours!' was plastered on every newspaper in England, before tendering his resignation.

He packed his bags, gave a smile to the few genuine people onboard, and left, once more a nameless face in a crowd of washed out strangers.

* * *

He made his way to London, finding a reasonably priced one-bedroom flat with great difficulty, and then spent a week readjusting to living on land again before filling in the application and sending it off. In early February 1946, he was finally called into an office on the sixth floor of the Regent's Park headquarters, to meet Sir Miles Messervy, the Head of the Secret Service.

Or, _M_, as he soon came to be called.

Original-M, that was, for there would be many more M's along the way, not he knew that yet, of course.

The man was serious, efficient, and no-nonsense and James' first impression of him was unfavourable. Perhaps it was the pipe. He had never cared for pipe-smokers since Eton, especially not after that drug addicted headmaster had kicked him out. And there was something very _cold_ in M's manner, no welcome or friendly introduction, not even an invitation to sit down. It was as if the man hadn't yet realised, they'd won the war.

He didn't dislike him for long, however, as with that stern attitude came a great soldier and an even better man. It just took a while for him to figure that out.

"Commander Bond, I have been looking at your records… An interesting career. Experience like yours must be unique" He said, "It remains to be seen, however, whether we can use you. Things are changing fast; the post-war pattern of the service will be very different from what you are used to. What I propose is that you to go to America for us, on attachment to the Office of Strategic Services in Washington. They've requested someone with field experience and you've been highly recommended".

_No thanks._

"It's quite a chance, Commander. Be sure to make the most of it".

_Oh. So it wasn't an option, then._

* * *

James wasn't sure whether to be pleased or not, but eventually his curiosity of the New World won out, and he found himself on a plane to New York exactly one week later. The city was bright and alive and full of so much _colour_, that dreary grey London could never be the same again. He bought stupid things, frivolous things, just because he could. He bought a Zippo lighter and a Hoffritz razor, Ferry tickets and tram _rides_, leather shoes and designer suits. It was the richest city in the world, and he planned on making the most of it.

Once in Washington, the Embassy took care of him, restricting his movements and feeding him when they liked and telling him where to sleep and when to wake and-

And after New York it felt stiff and formal _far_ too pretentious.

But he kept his head down, he did was he was told, and after successful breakthrough after successful breakthrough days, weeks, and months on end, the O.S.S. contact M and asked if they could _keep_ him.

"You'll do no such thing" came the gruff reply, "Put him on the next flight home. We need him. _Now_".

* * *

He was met in the airport by a silent man wearing a dark suit, led to an even darker car, and driven back to HQ. There, he was to dine with M himself, a rare honour if the rumours were anything to go by.

"The American's were quite pleased to have you in their ranks" He started, "They claimed you were the best agent we've ever sent, despite only being an Officer… They also said you subdued every attack and/or argument that came your way, topping the class in every training simulation they gave".

He shrugged and told the truth, "I enjoy fighting, sir".

M studied at him closely.

"Things have changed a lot since you've been away. The opposition has been keeping us on our toes and we have had to regroup accordingly".

James nodded, though he didn't understand where this was going.

"It's an unpleasant fact of life that in our business we sometimes have to kill our enemies. The opposition makes no bones about it. I doubt you've heard of Smersh, but-"

"Smiert Spionam" He interrupted, and M glanced up quickly, surprise flickering briefly in his dark eyes.

"… Yes" He said, "Well, as we know, for two years now they've run their training school outside Irkutsk. They have a special course in what they are pleased to call _liquidation_. They also have a section specially devised to cope with all assignments which have… assassination elements. A few months ago, I formed a section of our own to deal with it. It's called the double-O section. I think it might suit you".

"You mean you want me to be part our own murder squad?"

"Nothing of the sort!" He snapped, "That may be the way _they_ do things, but by _God_, that's not how we do things here. This is a crisis and there can only be one survivor. We need men like you".

"… And if I refuse?"

"Then you'll stay where you are. A Petty Officer, sent on liaison missions and civil discussions until you grow as old and as grey as me".

He winced, having learnt long ago that a boring, dull, _normal_ life was most certainly not for him.

"Commander… _James_" M continued, catching his attention, "You're being offered the highest possible position in the Secret Service, a rank that most agents would quite literally _kill_ for… You'll get to travel the world, meet people from all cultures and backgrounds, and try every delicacy known to man. Yes, there _will_ be assassinations, and yes, you _will_ be the one pulling the trigger… but it's a small price to pay. You've killed for Queen and country before, so why stop now?"

* * *

Three months of gruelling training later, he was both physically, mentally, and emotional exhausted. He was put through his paces in combat, in weaponry, and the so-called 'torture chamber', an RTI method where for three days straight, faceless men tried to _break_ him. He found the whole thing rather amusing, to be honest, knowing that their threats of a 'slow pain filled death' couldn't exactly be carried out. He spent the next few weeks recovering and learning about modern technology, how cipher machines and computers would take over the world some-day, and despite his doubts, he kept his grades nothing short of _excellent_. By the time he got his official pass for HQ, he felt that he'd more than earned it.

* * *

A few weeks after, the title of double-o was all but thrown at him, once he made his mandatory two kills during a rather unforgettable night of adrenaline and pain in BSC Headquarters back in New York. But that promotion, and the realisation of constantly leaving death and destruction in his wake, led to a whole other problem.

James could still remember with perfect clarity the day he requested a meeting with M to explain the whole not-dying thing. The pipe-smoking man sat behind his desk in equal parts shock and disbelief until the double-o seriously considered calling medical. It took four H. Upmann's and a particularly expensive bottle of brandy before M started making sense of it all, so James told him his name, date of birth, his _real_ date of birth, and all about his parents lives, how his mother had married his father as an Italian but died as a Swiss, how he moved all over Europe as a teen, and how he was both killed and reborn in Austria, before finally, _finally_, the man began to accept it for the truth.

After he had used every possible source he had to confirm the story, of course.

During the midst of a secret war, with technology never before seen, M was ready to believe to pretty much anything, especially if it gave Britain an advantage. So, he was given a slap on the back, a new code-name, and sent off to Jamaica to investigate the murder of MI6's station chief and his secretary.

James wondered how long it'd be before he tired of this job, too.


	3. Scottish-7

**Chapter 3**

And just like that, he was no longer James Bond, no longer just James, he was _007_.

A nameless title working in a nameless building filled with other nameless people, sent out to protect Queen and country with a gun and a licence to kill.

So there he was, on a plane to Jamaica for his first mission as a double-O, feeling excited and nauseous and invincible and _completely_ _out of his dept_. He's picked up by a chauffeur claiming to have been sent to bring him to King's House and it was only by pure luck that he realised the man's true intentions, and one panicked and adrenaline filled car chase and combat later, the man lies dead at his feet having swallowed cyanide.

Not two minutes in and already someone's dead.

Wonderful.

* * *

He eventually arrives at Strangways' house, sweating and shaking and trying his best to hold it all together, feeling like everyone was _staring_ at him, like everyone _knew_ he'd just technically _killed_ a man and he doesn't know how to _introduce_ himself to anyone because he shouldn't even _be_ there but he can't sound nervous or happy or _any_ emotion really and here he is playing poker across from a beautiful woman and being asked for his name and-

"Trench. Sylvia Trench".

_Huh_.

That was quite good, actually.

He might use that.

And so began the construction of this new form, a strange title and an even stranger face, built around a charming smile and a suave greeting and he slowly but surely becomes the witty, tough 007 he thinks he was always meant to be because between the vodka martinis and the fast cars and the femme fatales, he gets the feeling that he's coming _home_.

* * *

While investigating the boathouse, he's introduced to Felix _(for the first time)_ and they immediately hit it off, 007 feeling more confident and capable once he knows he's got a CIA agent watching his back. The sailor mentions the name 'Dr. No', a curious fellow living on Crab Key island and _obviously_ he has to find out more about that so he introduces himself to R.J. Dent, a smiling British man who later tries to kill him, fails, and gets a bullet to the head for his troubles. He finds the radioactive materials, gets kidnapped along with a _delightful_ young woman by the name of Honey Ryder, and finally meets the mastermind with the cat and a member of the criminal organisation _SPECTRE_.

007 won't realise the significance of _that_ until much later.

He's beaten and imprisoned and mocked and cajoled, but he escapes, _of course_ he escapes, and makes his way to Dr. No's control centre, overloads the reactor, and kills the son of a bitch in the process. He frees the beautiful shell collector, breaks out of the islands lair, and gets collected by Felix, _good ole' Felix_, and declares everything a mission success.

* * *

And at the end of it all, there he is, back in M's office with a smug grin on his face and a new-found light blossoming in his heart that only flares even _brighter_ when he's told that the job's not over yet. And he goes, gladly, mission after mission, travelling the world and fighting bad guys and it's every little kid's dream come true. He doesn't take the mandatory two weeks resting period between missions, partly because he heals twice as fast as his double-O counterparts, but mainly because he's making a _difference_ in the world and he wants to take every single second he can if it means he's saving lives. M, of course, is all too glad to agree, thinking of 007 as his personal little killing machine, a notion that the agent himself is not too happy with but won't dissuade if it means he can continue with what he's doing.

He meets Q, _Major Boothroyd_, who replaces his favoured Beretta with a point-three-two Walther PPK handgun that 007 quickly comes to love just as much. He gets gadgets, _incredible_ gadgets, a briefcase with tear gas and a spring-loaded throwing knife, shoes with bladed tips and watches with garrottes, even an underwater _jetpack_. The old man acts irritated and impatient as the agent pokes and prods at everything in the lab, but they both know he secretly enjoys the youngers playful 'research'.

And Moneypenny, sweet old Moneypenny wise beyond her years, _of which there were many_, who he jokingly flirts with and gets reprimanded like a school boy every time, who he gets mothered and smothered by, who brings him tea and biscuits when he's sad and lets him yell at her when he's mad, Moneypenny who no one could ever compare to, Moneypenny who reminded him of _family_.

* * *

SPECTRE puts a target on his back and he's sent to Istanbul to retrieve a rouge agent, only to have a Russian hit squad attack him instead. He sleeps with a woman only to have it used against him as blackmail but helps her escape anyway. They make it to Italy, get attacked by an assassin in a maid's uniform, and kill her too. One month later, 007 is blowing up a drug laboratory in Latin America and helping Felix track down Auric Goldfinger. His latest conquest suffocates to death in paint, he drives his first Aston Martin and promptly declares it _his_, and is captured by a man with a rather _deadly_ hat. He's dragged along to the massacre at Fort Knox, electrocutes a few bad guys, and finally disarms the bomb with the timer stopping on 0:07. Ironic, huh? But he continues on, getting invited to the White House and killing Goldfinger, and crashing into the ocean in a parachute.

* * *

He's given two days rest before being sent off again, thankfully managing to convince Q that the Aston was _crucial_ to the mission, just so he could hold onto it for a bit longer. There's a conference at MI6 for all the double-O's, the first sign that something's not good. The second is when SPECTRE reappears and demands £100 million from NATO in return for two atomic bombs, and really, did _no one_ learn from the war?! He keeps his comments to himself and asks M to send him to the Bahamas, partially to escape the chaos in London, and partially to find Domino, a cigar-smoking lovely looking French girl who got in too deep with the wrong sort of people and agrees to dance the night away with him. Felix arrives just on time of course, and is followed by Q who cannot blend in for the _life_ of him but still manages to berate 007 about his own disguise all the same. He holds his own, fights for control of the ship, and jumps overboard one-too-many times for it to be healthy.

* * *

Tokyo was new. And forever tainted by the death of a fellow agent. 007 chases and manages to kill the assailant, but the damage is done and Henderson is dead. He masquerades as a buyer in order to meet Mr. Osato himself, and much to his chagrin, his disguise is seen through almost immediately. He's captured, interrogated, tortured by a cute redhead in a cocktail dress who promptly frees him once she gets bored. One helicopter ride later, he finds out the location of the secret base, frees the captured American and Russian astronauts, and meets Blofeld, the mysterious head of SPECTRE _who keeps getting in the bloody way_. Self-destructing the spacecraft was surprisingly easy, and he's quickly brought back to London by the Secret Service with a sour taste in his mouth and a strong desire to put a bullet through Blofeld's head.

* * *

He gets his wish not long after, though in a much messier, wetter, _muddier_ manner.

* * *

M allows him a brief moment of victory before sending him to South Africa to investigate a diamond smuggling ring. Once in America, Felix takes over, they cremate the body filled with diamonds which, _yea_, that was an interesting one, gets simultaneously attacked and loved by different women with jewels for names, a Tiffany and a Ruby and even a Plenty. He scales the walls of a ridiculously tall building, kills yet another Blofeld look-a-like, and placed in a Las Vegas oil pipeline to die. Dodging _that_ particular death was probably the most difficult of all his demises, but he managed_, as usual_, and 007 made his way to the coast, blowing up a submarine with the real Blofeld inside and destroying the satellite control room as promised.

* * *

He escapes, saves the day, gets the girl, and really, this is all becoming a bit repetitive isn't it? 007 is requested by agencies all over the world, gets more medals that he can count, and even more women, and yea, everything's been kind of blending together recently, but for the first time in his life, he's truly honestly genuinely _happy_.

And then, as usual, he gets too cocky, too careless, and things go _boom_.


	4. Australian-7

**Chapter 4**

His second regeneration wasn't any less painful than the first, though it thankfully didn't last as long. 007 put is down to regenerating a fully-grown adult being easier than rebuilding an ever-changing teenager, but it wasn't as if he knew how this entire regeneration thing worked anything. Either way, he doesn't complain. He wakes up in MI6 medical with M sitting in the chair next to him, shock and surprise and _awe_ clearly visible in his expression as a cigar remains unlit in his mouth. 007 sighed, shifted, and swore until he found a somewhat-comfortable position for his still healing body, but it was yet another full six minutes later before M finally reacted.

"... 007?"

"Yes sir-"

He abruptly shut his mouth.

Both men stared at in other in surprised silence.

"Was that... Say something else!"

"... I don't know if I want to, sir".

M's eyebrows disappeared into his receding hairline and Bond frowned deeply.

"What is that? Where am I from? What sort of accent is-"

"Australian" M suddenly realised, "You're... You're Australian, now... _Australian_".

If the man hadn't already been sitting, 007 would have told him to pull up a chair before he passed out. As it was, he just stared and carefully monitored for any signs of his boss fainting and collapsing on top of him. Which, you know, would've been awkward.

"... You're Australian now".

"So it would seem, sir".

"... Alright".

And that was that.

* * *

M had declared Scottish-007 dead and for the first time in all of his lives, 007 attended a funeral. His _own_ funeral. Since his parents' bodies had never been recovered, he'd never had anything to bury before, so he didn't even know the proper protocol for a _normal_ funeral, let alone how he was supposed to act during his own. He was confused and annoyed and his nose felt too small but his mouth too big and his hair was a lot _fluffier_ than before and kept distracting him but thank _christ_ he was the same height because he didn't think he could take any more changes on top of those and-

"I'm going to ask you to give the eulogy".

He froze.

Next to him, M remained unfazed as the priest at the alter continued his speech.

"... Sir?"

"I'm going to ask you to say a few words" He repeated quietly, "About Scottish-7".

Because that's what they were calling him now. Scottish-7 and Australian-7 and-

"_You want me to give my own eulogy?!_"

He got a pointed cough from behind him and a subtle dig in the ribs from M, "Keep it down, would you, we don't want everyone to know".

"You're expecting me to talk about _my own death_".

"Well, actually, I'm ordering you to" He replied calmly, "After all, nobody knew 007 better than you".

So after the priest's bit and M's bit and then the priests bit again, he's nudged forwards and slowly walks up to the pulpit in a too-small pair of shoes and a too-large black suit. He gazes down at the respectable crowd, only recognising half and being able to name less than a third. M, Moneypenny, and Q stand in the front, next to a damp-eyed Felix and _christ_, he can't even reach out and tell him he's still alive, because the man that's standing before him now and the one who should have been in that empty casket are _two_ _completely_ _different_ _people_ and he can't even _begin_ to explain how because he doesn't understand it _himself_ so-

_So_.

He clears his throat, both hands tightly gripping either side of the pulpit, tries not to look too nervous, and begins.

* * *

Walking through familiar halls with familiar faces was absolute _hell_.

Everyone he passed, he smiled at, nodded, said hello, because that was the type of person Scottish-7 was. But his lips felt awkward while smirking, and the words left a bitter taste in his mouth, and by his eleventh "good morning" he had developed a headache and a strong hatred of pleasantries so, clearly, this _wasn't_ the type of person Australian-7 was.

It was only made worse by the realisation that they didn't recognise _him_. Which, obviously, _duh,_ but he hadn't quite realised just how much it would _hurt _before now. He _knew_ these people; he knew their names and their lives and what they liked to eat every Friday night after a long week at work and-

And they only knew him as the guy who replaced 007.

No one nodded back. No one smiled in return. No one spoke to him at all. To them, he was the new guy, the replacement that had been deep undercover for the last few years or whatever other cover story M had come up with. He _knew_ these people. He was friends with these people and he had to- to _pretend_ that they'd never met before. And it angered him.

* * *

007 quickly learned what type of person Australian-7 was.

He was _angry_.

* * *

He was dull and blunt and so so _bitter_ that whatever new friends he could have made, _new_ friends with his _old_ friends never happened. He was arrogant and snobbish and chased away anyone who came too close. Even M noticed the difference, and began non-too-subtly keeping an eye on him, not wanting to lose his prize weapon so soon after he realised it's full potential. So, he sends him to Portugal, tells him to take a few days off, get his head right, then return fresh eyed and bushy tailed. The man actually believed that he could get his charismatic killing machine back.

007 didn't have the heart to tell him that he really did bury the Scotsman that day.

But he did as he was told, ever the good little agent, and within 30 minutes of arriving, he'd pulled over at a beach, dashed from his car, and prevented a woman from committing suicide.

_Well okay then_.

The woman- "Tracy, please, Mr. Bond" -turned out to be the daughter of the major European crime syndicate leader, Draco himself, who was quick to tell him all about her troubled past and offer him information in return for marrying his daughter. It seemed like a win-win to 007. He returns to London with a spring in his step and a smile on his face and ignores the strange looks he gets and the blank gazes from his previous forms friends and gladly slams his resignation letter down on M's desk. He returns to the bright red-haired girl who's slowly but surely winning over his heart and sweeps her off her feet. It's been so long since he had someone who cared about him, truly cared about him, someone who smiled and laughed and cried and did it all with James. _James_. Not Bond, not Scottish-7, not Australian-7. Just James. And if, in the process, he managed to take down SPECTRE for the third time? Well, that was just an extra bonus.

Returning to Switzerland left him feeling almost melancholic, as he vividly remembered the first time he had regenerated, the first time he had a new face, new hands, a new voice, the first time he realised that he could start over... and the last time that he had been _just _James Bond.

He reluctantly recontacts M and is bribed into returning to the service before going off to arrest Blofeld, because _of course_ that son of a bitch had survived the explosion. He catches him, saves his now-fiancé for the umpteenth time that week, and destroys SPECTRE's latest headquarters in the process. All in a day's work in the life of a double-o. And he thinks _this is_ _it_, this is his new life, or at least his _newest_, this is who Australian-7 is meant to be.

Someone who's_ happy_.

He blows off M, finds himself an Aston Martin, and marries the love of his life.

* * *

He should have known it was too good to be true.

* * *

His momentary happiness, his one chance of freedom, his first love... it all came at a price. A price that Tracy wasn't meant to pay. Tracy who was young and beautiful and clever, _oh so very clever_. Tracy who had made him reconsider his spying career choice, the only choice he ever thought he'd had, Tracy who had made him think that a simple life would be _enough_, Tracy who had finally made him realise why his mum had stayed with his father despite all the lies and the pain and the regenerations, Tracy who had made him feel _human_.

Well.

If this was the cost of being human, he never wanted to feel anything like it ever again.

So he holds her close, kisses her cheek, promises her "don't worry, we've got all the time in the world" and then shoots himself in the head.

* * *

Maybe this time he'd stay dead.


	5. English-7

**Chapter 5**

He doesn't get his wish.

Bond slowly flickers open tired eyes and watches as lights flash across the black leather opposite him. It's a car seat, he realises, based on the faint thrumming of an engine he can hear, and he's lying across the one opposite. A limo then, and company issued at that based on the lack of manufacturer names on the windows and doors.

He closes his eyes again.

Of _fucking_ course he would wake up in an MI6-owned car.

There was a clearing of a throat near him, undoubtedly M's, but he allowed himself a further minute of peace before reluctantly, _stiffly_, sitting up. Blinking, he glanced over at the man sitting diagonally across from him, impassive.

"If it's any consolation, you're more handsome than before".

M's eyes remain saddened despite his attempt at humour.

New-7 doesn't speak.

M clears his throat once more, "Yes, well, I suppose you don't know that yourself, yet, so, here".

He held out a small compact mirror that Bond stares at silently. M sighs, and gently tosses it on the seat next to him, "You can look when you want to, I suppose".

A glance outside revealed them to be in England. It's late, very late, and New-7 wonders how they managed to smuggle him out of Portugal without any passport or ID.

Then again, identification wouldn't be needed for a corpse.

* * *

"007..." M hesitates, and he knows what's coming, "... James, I'm so-"

"_Don't_".

His voice is deeper than before, with a distinct London lilt. English-7, then.

M pauses, "You're both to be buried in three days' time... I thought you might want to speak at it. For her".

"Lamenting over another dead man's wife, M?" He smirks sardonically, "Not exactly how I want to be reintroduced to them at '6".

"Maybe not, but it's the only opportunity you'll have".

He has no response to that.

M flexes his fingers, hands looking strange without their customary cigar, "The official report claims that 007 was killed along with his wife".

Bond refuses to look at him, "And?"

"Were you?"

"What difference does it make?"

M rubs his eyes tiredly, "Can't you just give me a straight answer, without asking another question?"

"Well, I don't know" He replies brazenly, "_Can_ I?"

He feels something tight loosen inside of him with the sort-of-joke and frowns, briefly. M seemed to notice too, it would appear, as he gave Bond a dry look.

"Really, 007? You're a _prankster_, now?"

He glances over at him with foreign eyes, "Better than a dead Aussie".

The words were sour in his mouth, and were only made worse when M looks away, clearly uncomfortable, "I need to know, Bond… Were you shot with her?"

"As opposed to-?"

"God _dammit_, 007, I was _there!_" He suddenly explodes, "I was _there_ as they pulled both your lifeless _corpses_ from that _bloody_ Aston Martin and dug the _bullet_ out of your _skull!_ _I was there_".

"Then you know" He replies simply, returning his gaze to the night sky outside.

M took a deep breath to calm himself, "What I _know_... is that there were two different calibre bullets found, and your gun had recently been fired... I can't have a suicidal agent in the field, _especially_ not a double-0".

"Well it's a good thing Australian-7 and I have parted ways, then, isn't it?"

M studies him carefully, looking for any sign of deceit, before slowly nodding. "Okay. Right. _Fine_. Welcome back 007... and please do look at yourself in the mirror, your hair is in quite a state".

His very smooth hair, he was quick to realise, even in the dim lighting of the car, silkier than Australian-7 and a lighter shade too. He also had blue eyes, not hazel this time, and a more rounded face, less cheekbones and more chin.

He was still wearing his blood encrusted wedding suit.

Swallowing thickly, he stares at the stranger looking right back at him, "Where are we going?"

"Your apartment first, for a shower, some new clothes, and what have you. Then HQ. We _do_ need to get you a few new passports, after all".

He tries to smile and finds that it suits him, raises an eyebrow and looks sufficiently sarcastic, tries a wink and _oh yea_, English-7 was a joker alright.

How fitting it is to wake up as an Englishman, when England is the last place he wants to be.

* * *

He quickly readjusts back into life at MI6, partly because he knows what to expect now and partly because he just doesn't care anymore. He doesn't want to fall in love again, doesn't even want _friends_, because now he knows what will happen when he inevitable has another 'accident'. Much to his chagrin, he's an entire _inch_ shorter than his previous two counterparts, though to be honest, this is probably the height that his original self would have evened out at and he finds the thought strangely comforting. Even if he means all his suits need to be retailored.

He slips into the role of the debonair gentleman with ease, more smarmy than Scottish-7 but still kinder than Australian-7. He makes a name for himself on four separate continents as an international playboy, acting light-hearted and careless, playful and untouchable, sleeping with femme fatal from Louisiana to Sardinia to the Bahamas.

He finally gets his revenge on Blofeld and what a sweet _sweet_ revenge it is.

* * *

His first mission as English-7 brings him back to New York. The city has changed drastically since the last time he was there, fresh off the boat and not yet a double-0 and naïve and kind and full of hope and-

Or maybe it's just him that's changed.

His driver is killed within minutes of meeting him, also reminiscent of his first mission, only this time, he doesn't escape unscathed. He meets Mr Big, a ruthless gang leader with a penchant for opium and disguises, as well as the beautifully innocent Solitaire. He meets up with Felix and is momentarily thrown by the man's cool attitude towards him, before suddenly remembering with a painful stab that he's not who he used to be. Either way, by the end of the mission, after the crocodiles and sharks and venomous snakes and really, what the hell is it with bad guys and exotic pets?! Felix has warmed up to him a little, and English-7 briefly maintains the hope that they'll become just as close as they were before.

* * *

And then he's sent a golden bullet that quite literally has his name on it. He's taken off his current mission revolving around a solar power scientist, and sent to track the assassin down, but of course it comes back to bite him when he's then framed for said solar power scientist's murder. M and Q both help out, he's tricked into getting captured, and escapes on a motorized sampan. There's a homing device, an AMC Matador, an a Solex chip. There's a pretty woman, an evil henchman, and a bad guy who won't stay dead. There's even a sea plane and an aqua car and a ship. Mission after mission seem to blur together, English-7 escaping but not unharmed every time, with a beautiful lady on one arm and a holster on the other.

* * *

He's sent back to Austria, which he receives with mixed feelings. He's not ashamed to admit that it takes him a while to build up the courage to put his skis back on, given that the last time he's gone skiing, he'd been killed. He wonders where Oberhauser ended up, and Helga and her brother, and then realises with a pang, that it's the late 70's now, and chances are they were all dead. The Soviet hit squad quickly keeps him from thinking too much about it. He goes to Egypt, to Sardinia, to the middle of the Atlantic bloody ocean, and gets caught in more than a few compromising situations by M. He meets Jaws more than once, an interesting fellow that he's almost-but-not-quite frenemies with, and they work together to overthrow the next Hitler. He takes control of an _actual_ space station which is by far the coolest thing he's done to date, and then, all of a sudden, it's the turn of a decade.

* * *

The 80's are full of yuppies and preppies and enough freedom that his occasional visit to different men's apartment go unnoticed, and he relishes taut stomachs and lean shoulders the same way he worshipped soft chests and curvy legs. He thinks it's about time he moves on, new decade new him, and he pays one last visit to Tracy Bond's grave before locking away that chapter of his life. It's not as easy as it sounds, and he's scolded more than once for seducing women he doesn't have to.

* * *

But a new decade also brings with it a new leader. Somewhere along the way, M, _Original-M_, retires and gets replaced by a much softer man, a much kinder man, _far too kind to be the head of MI6_, Bond thinks, and then he has to go through the whole I-don't-think-I-can-actually-die thing again but at least this time it's easier with Original-M backing him up and a list of missions he should have died on the length of his arm. And for a while, he forgets about his pain and anger and _oh so desperate_ loneliness and buries himself in his work, in his missions, in whatever willing partner he can find for the night. He tells himself that it's all worth it, that it's better this way, even as he blows up a futuristic submarine and has sex in an escape pod and a pistol duel on the beach and invades a voodoo sacrifice and-

* * *

And then it all finally comes to a head in an airship on the Golden Gate Bridge with a stack of dynamite and a too-slow getaway.


	6. Welsh-7

**Chapter 6**

He wakes as a dark haired, bright eyed, serious Welshman and yea, okay, _maybe_ he's a little pissed about the whole San Francisco fiasco that led him to losing his precious uncaring sophisticated persona, and yea, _maybe_ he took that out on his new form by being cold and strict, and yea, okay, _fine_, _maybe_ he was darker and more ruthless than he should have been, hard-edged and unflinching, and just that tad bit _too real_ for him to be comfortable with despite the fact he actually gained a centimetre in height this time, but hey, who can blame him?

He'd wanted a new start after all.

But this wasn't what he meant.

* * *

New-M sighs and shakes his head, not half as wow-ed as he should have been, before sending him to kill a _cello player_, of all people, and _sure_ she may have been an assassin only to protect her boyfriend but _that_ was something he could understand. Instead of shooting her, he shoots her gun, and goes against M's direct orders by keeping her alive. He only returns when things get bad, bad enough that M is scared and agents are being shot down like flies, and the man who murdered 004 was still out there and bragging about it. Welsh-7 quickly puts an end to that tongue of his.

* * *

Then suddenly, there's a new Moneypenny, younger, and hey it turns out the Moneypenny was a moniker and not a real name just like Q and M and 007 and couldn't they have found something shorter? Either way, she's younger and blonder and blue-eyed and cute. But Cute-Moneypenny is also a lot kinder than Old-Moneypenny and Welsh-7 hopes to Christ that she gets out of this business before she becomes as hardened and cynical as him.

* * *

The cellist, Kara, turns out to be closer to the enemy than he thinks, but still, he helps her, running through Tangier and Bratislava and bloody Austria again. Then the traitor drugs him enough to be captured, and only has her lover try to kill her as a result.

She pleads with him, _begs_ him, anything just to save her life and get revenge on Koskov, and if there's one thing Welsh-7 understands, it's _violence_.

The man's end is painful, gritty, and he's never felt more like a burnt-out killer trying to keep up with this impossible world.

* * *

He calls in Felix for help, knowing that it was out of his hands, and the man comes readily despite Welsh-7 being a complete stranger to him. There was something almost funnily macabre about meeting him again with a new face, a new body, a new _personality_, but it still left a pang in his heart and a knot in his stomach at the memories of a much simpler life. But Felix was as friendly as he had always been, and he made Welsh-7 smirk and even _chuckle_ occasionally, and he found himself falling back into old habits whenever he was around the man.

But Felix was a lot cleverer than most gave him credit for, and by the end of the mission, Bond was convinced that the man suspected something. He never brought it up with him, of course, and Felix stayed quiet too as they worked in tandem just as beautifully as the _first, second, third_ time they broke into a rich villain's house together.

Welsh-7 even gets invited to the man's wedding two years later, though he knew it pained him to not have _his_ 007 as best man. But then the whole maiming thing with the shark happens and it couldn't have come at a worse time, _really_, because the newly-wed Leiters _didn't deserve_ _that_, especially when he couldn't _regrow limbs_ the way Welsh-7 did. He raises back to their house only to find Felix missing a limb, and his beautiful blushing bride dead.

So, he does the only thing he can think of.

He goes rogue.

* * *

He murders his not-friend's attacker by feeding him to the same shark that ate Felix's leg, and then promptly resigns when New-M orders him to Istanbul for a different mission. Q, the trustworthy old fool who'd been on his side since day one, comes to his rescue, bringing with him gadgets and intel and everything he might need to bring drug lords down. The man may play the role of a blundering idiot, but Welsh-7 recognises that sharp look behind his eyes, and wonders if the Quartermaster realises that he's always been 007, in some shape or form. Right now, however, there's no time to ask.

New-M, the bastard, sends another agent after him. Apparently, there's a reward for his capture, dead or alive, but in the end, it's Agent Fallon who ends up being the former. He cuts down the bad guys one by one in a ruthless manner that would give psych a field day, framing and blackmailing and cheating his way through the entire drug hierarchy until suddenly, it's just him and a desert and a machete-waving lunatic.

So, he douses him in petrol, pulls Felix's lighter from his pocket, and flicks the switch.

It was only right that the man had _some_ say in how his wife's murderer was killed, after all.

* * *

Everything seems to pile up at once, reminding him just how _human_ his allies were- _not friends, never friends, no attachments, not again_ -and it _softened_ him, softened him enough that when he saw that beautiful CIA agent standing by herself in that stunning blue dress that brought out her eyes _just so_… he couldn't help but do something stupid and jump into the swimming pool just to kiss her.

He allowed himself one night, one night to remember what desire and lust and _love_ was, but when morning came, he got dressed, walked back to that same swimming pool, and tied a concrete block to his leg.

Perhaps it was time to leave the past in the past, and officially move on with his life.


	7. Irish-7

**Chapter 7 **

It's the sterile scent of Medical and the _distinct_ feeling of being _glared_ at that finally woke him, and he slowly took a deep breath before opening his eyes.

There was a short silver-haired woman scowling at him from the end of the bed.

He blinked.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He continued to meet her gaze evenly, already liking this new form who refused to lose staring matches, no matter how intimidating the opponent.

Eventually, she spoke.

"The next time you decide to _drown_ yourself, 007, please inform me beforehand".

He immediately stilled.

She pursed her lips, "Yes, Bond, I know all about you and your... _abilities_. The previous M was kind enough to leave a rather _specific_ document outlining what to do with all of his agents, and yours was _quite_ the read".

New-7 felt like he was being scolded for something he hadn't even done yet.

He cautiously cleared his throat, "_Previous_ M?"

And _oh_, _would you look at that, he was_ _Irish!_ Scottish, English, Welsh, and now Irish, he'd managed to collect the whole set.

"Yes. Previous. As of yesterday evening, he's retired. You've been unconscious for a week, agent, and a lot has happened. Namely, _I'm_ the new M".

_Ah_.

So, MI6 now had not only gained a New-7, but also New-M.

A _New_-New-M.

He frowned.

This was going to get confusing.

"I'm sure you can't wait to see your new face, 007, but before I go, let me inform you that I _do not care_ that you supposedly cannot die, I _do not care_ that you have a new face every few years that comes with a _hell_ of a lot of paperwork, and I most certainly _do not care_ about your personal life or what led you to drowning yourself in the swimming pool of the most powerful drug lord in Latin America" She said.

_She_.

She-M.

Yes, there we go.

"However, I _am_ expecting a full report of your last mission on my desk by tomorrow morning, as well as a full inventory of all the equipment lost. If it's not there by 9am, I'll cause you to regenerate myself, and I promise you Bond, _it will not be quick_… Is that understood?"

He smirked.

_Oh, he liked her_.

"Perfectly, ma'am".

* * *

Waiting until she had left, he carefully stood up, readjusting to walking on new legs. On _shorter_ legs, he realised with a frown. And just when things had started getting better...

A glance in the bathroom mirror revealed his most extreme form yet.

He still had dark hair, though it was straight instead of wavy this time, and a somewhat-familiar shade of blue eyes stared back at him. He had a narrower mouth and a shorter nose and thinner eyebrows, but overall, he was quite pleased with this new look. He even had some freckles, thanks to the Irish genes, which, _yea_, that was new, but not entirely unwelcome.

"The name's Bond. James Bond".

He quite enjoyed the new lithe accent too, softer than before but rather endearing.

He nodded at the mirror and the stranger nodded back.

Right. Time to go.

Taking a deep breath, he dressed in the provided clothes and went to write that report. It would do no good to irritate She-M this early in the game, after all.

And it wasn't as if he wouldn't have plenty of time to do so...

* * *

Four small assignments later, and he meets 00-Call-Me-Alec-6, who makes him laugh and swear and grin and "_No_, _you eejit, you're not allowed to set fire to the American embassy!"_

The Russian slowly worms his way into his heart without Irish-7 even noticing, and for the first time in his life, he realises that he has something to come back to.

Even if that 'thing' was 6ft 2 of blonde-haired muscle who crashed on his couch without asking but made up for it by bringing high-quality whiskey every other week.

He finds himself missing the insufferable pyromaniac when he was away, and automatically pulls up his number when planning to go a bar.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise that this is what friendship is.

Trevelyan's the first true friend he's had since Scottish-7 back in the 60's, and he's had three different lives since then. _Christ_, Alec himself wasn't even _born_ back then. They become close, closer than friends but nothing that can be labelled. The job doesn't exactly allow magnanimous relationships, after all, but they become as good as.

And sometimes, after long _long_ missions that seem to _drain_ him to his very _core_, he sits next to his only friend, his only partner, his only _everything,_ with a beer in one hand and the TV remote in the other. Sometimes, in these sacred moments, he glances over at the soft smiling agent and sighs and drinks and cracks _just_ _that_ _little bit_ _more_ and opens his mouth and-

"Hey, Alec, _look_, I need to talk to you about something and, well, I'm _not_ actually who I say I am, and you're going to find this _really_ hard to believe but-"

-never actually comes out.

So, instead, he shuts his mouth hard enough that he feels teeth rattle in his skull, turns back to whatever rerun they're currently watching, and opens another bottle of beer.

* * *

And then Arkhangelsk happens.

* * *

Irish-7 knows that they get into that weapons facility too easily, hebloody well_ knows _it, but Alec tells him to _calm down_ and _it's just luck_ and like an absolute _idiot_, he _believes_ him.

Fast forward one hour later, he's pinned down behind gas canisters, Alec's kneeling on the floor, and General Ourumov's pointing a gun at his head.

"Move out, throw down your weapons, and walk towards me slowly".

Shit.

"Finish the job, James!" Alec snapped, "Blow them all to hell!"

_Shit_.

"You have ten seconds".

He quickly ducks back to the gas canister where the bomb timer is ticking. Raising a hand, he goes to hit the button to set it to three minutes instead of six and-

Wait.

_No_.

Irish-7 slowly lowers his hand.

He couldn't die, after all, and despite not wanting to suffer through yet _another_ new body when he _liked_ this one and it was only on its _first_ _bloody outing_... he wanted his new friend, his best friend, _his only friend_ to die even less.

So, he leaves the bomb set for its original time, steps back out into Ourumov's eye sight, and shoots the son of a bitch in the head.

* * *

He'll never realise just how drastic a change this decision creates.

* * *

Immediately, the guards retaliate and Alec yells in pain and he grabs a gas tank and shoves it forwards.

They stop firing, they _have_ to or risk killing themselves in the imminent explosion, and he uses this cover to shuffle over to Alec, grab him by the collar, and _pull_.

They reach the conveyer belt, leave the gan tank behind them, and jump.

"_What are you doing?!_" Alec yells, stumbling both from Irish-7's still-tight grip and the pain of the bullet wound in his shoulder.

"Getting us out of here!" He snaps back, shooting at the cables holding the barrels together.

"_No!_ You _can't_, you don't- _you don't understand!_"

It finally comes undone, sending metal canisters spiralling down on the guards below.

"I need to go back- I _have_ to!" Alec shouts, scrambling to his knees, but Irish-7 quickly shoves him back down.

"What the _hell_ do you mean you have to _go back?!_"

"It's- I- I was- We have a _deal!_"

"With who?!"

"Ourumov!"

He goes very _very_ still.

"... Alec, what the _bloody fuck_ does that mean?"

They were getting closer to the exit, and further away from the bomb.

"You know fucking _well_ what it means!"

Bloody and bruised and beaten, 006 looks more like a wild animal than a heavily trained double-0.

"You- You _what? _Struck up a deal behind- behind M's back? Behind MI6's back?!" He demanded, "Behind _mine?!_"

"I- It's not- It just-"

He swore. _Loudly_.

The conveyer belt finally emerged out into the dark night air, and Irish-7 didn't allow himself to think as he grabbed his partner and ran for a nearby jeep.

"You don't understand!" He finally settled on.

"You're right, I _don't_" He agreed, smashing the passenger window with his elbow before reaching in to unlock the door, "Because it sounds to me, like you were planning to betray _England_".

His response is cut off as Irish-7 unceremoniously shoves him into the vehicle, injuries be damned. Once that's done, he runs around the jeep, climbs into drivers' seat, and thanks whatever deity is out there that the idiot owner left the keys in the ignition.

"Didn't you ever ask why?!" Alec yells, still angry, still wild eyed, and still clutching his still bleeding arm, "Why we toppled all those dictators, undermined all those regimes, only to come home: 'Well done, good job, but sorry, old boy, everything you risked your life and limb for has changed!'"

"It was the job we were chosen for" He replies calmly, slamming the accelerator and urging the jeep to move faster.

He scoffs, "_Of course_ you would say that. James Bond, Her Majesty's loyal _terrier_, defender of the so-called _faith!_"

The bitterness in his voice actually _scares_ him.

"Alec... I trust you, but-"

"_Trust?_" He snorts, "What a quaint idea... My parents were Lienz Cossacks. We're both orphans, James. But where your parents had the luxury of dying in a climbing accident, _mine_ survived the British betrayal and Stalin's execution squads... but my father couldn't let himself or my mother live with the _shame_ of it. MI6 figured I was too young to remember".

Behind them, the building explodes in a near exact replica of the turmoil inside his own head.

"So, what, you suddenly decided to go work for the government whose betrayal caused the father to kill himself and his wife?!"

"... I did think of asking you to join my little scheme, but somehow I knew that 007's loyalty was always to the mission... _never to his_ _friend_".

* * *

Irish-7 slams on the brakes.

* * *

Alec hits his bad shoulder off the window and curses in four different languages.

Spinning around in the seat, he grabs both arms, ignoring the blonde's struggling.

"Look at me" He says.

006 tries to escape his hold.

"Dammit, Alec, I said _look at me!_"

He stops, surprisingly tear-filled green eyes reluctantly meeting his own.

"I fucking _love_ you, you fucking _idiot_" Irish-7 snaps, "My loyalty is to _you_ first, and England _second_. It always has been and it always will be and- _Christ_, Alec, why the hell didn't you just _tell_ me?!"

"... England killed my parents".

"_Your father_ killed your parents".

"But only because- because-"

"-because he believed in the needless slaughter of millions?" He finishes, "Because he worked, _willingly_, side by side with _Nazis? _With Stalin? _Because_ _Hitler lost the war?!_ I'm sorry, Alec, but I'm fucking _glad_ that they're dead!"

006 punches him.

Hard.

And then hugs him.

"I don't- I can't- I can't _do_ this anymore, James, not for you, not for England, I just- I _can't_".

"Then don't" He says simply, breathing in smoke and fumes and faint strawberry shampoo, "But there are far less dramatic ways to retire than faking your own death and running away to become an arms dealer".

Alec lets out an abrupt laugh which quickly becomes a sob.

"They won't let me go. MI6 never lets anyone go. Not when they're still _useful_".

"I'll _make_ them" Irish-7 swears, "Threaten to leave with you, go rogue, whatever the bloody hell it takes. You know M can't afford to lose both of us".

"... That easy, huh?"

"Yes, Alec" He promises, "That easy".

* * *

It was most definitely _not_ that easy.

* * *

Irish-7 loses track of how many arguments he has with M, the fierce old woman not understand 006's reasons and him unable to tell her without implicating Alec in some way. Which, you know, would defeat the whole point, since he'd end up free for like five minutes before being arrested for treason. But, eventually, he wears She-M down, telling her that Alec is more than capable of disappearing, and so he is. But for the moment, they like England, and may be inclined to stay, provided that the blonde in question was allowed out of the SO. With only nine double-0's currently in the program, losing two would be a serious blow. Losing the two best, would send the agency to its knees.

So, M eventually, reluctantly, painstakingly, agrees.

And then promptly sends Irish-7 to the middle of bloody _Siberia_ in a petulant act of revenge.

* * *

When he returns, there's a new Moneypenny, a red-head this time, and while he's sad to see Cute-Moneypenny go, he's happy that she escaped because this one was much more suited to the job, sharp tongued and flirtatious and fiery and Bond quickly finds out that she's just as fierce in bed.

Q tells him he's retiring the very same day, and that hits him a little closer to home.

"I've always tried to teach you two things, 007" Boothroyd says, packing up "First, never let them see you bleed".

"And the second?" He asks.

The old man's eyes twinkle, "Always have an escape plan".

He takes the words to heart, and then store Q, _First-Q_, in that same heart, giving him a safe little slot next to Original-M and New-M and Old-Moneypenny and Cute-Moneypenny and it's with a pang that he realises he's getting old, old enough to be losing friends one by one, but not old looking, never old looking, and he wonders how long he has before another sacred name is added to his list.

First-Q's second in command replaces him, and although Irish-7 is impressed by R's gadgets and general demeanour, it takes him a while to warm up to the man. He initially sees him as something like an interloper, someone trespassing on First-Q's title, First-Q who was the last connection he had to the old days, to the old MI6, to-

To the old _him_.

But R, _R-Q_, is only a tad younger than his predecessor, and has just as much experience. He also has a moustache, a no-nonsense attitude, and a rather annoying response to his cavalier attitude. Which, of course, only makes Irish-7 act just that more careless.

* * *

Life begins to settle down, or, as 'settled' as the life of a double-0 can be, meaning hot air balloon fights, speedboat chases, and paraglider-equipped snowmobiles. M stays true to her word, and within a month of his return from Russia, Alec is released from the program. Irish-7 cannot deny how nice it is to have someone waiting at home, as that Russian's occasional couch-surfing became more and more permanent. _He_ still goes on missions of course, because he would never _stop_ being 007, but this form seems to have better survival instincts than the last two, so he doesn't get as injured as much. Not from the bad guys lack of trying, of course. He's gets betrayed, kidnapped, tortured, released, and recaptured more times than he can count. He goes to Switzerland, Kazakhstan, Turkey, Cuba, and even North Korea. Life is good. Life is _better_ than good. He _likes_ Irish-7, likes the missions, likes coming home to a genuinely happy Trevelyan, and for a while, at least, everything is almost... _perfect_.

* * *

But then, of course, he goes and does something _stupid_, and the last thing he remembers is trying to get that _blasted_ helicopter to work in the cargo hold of the plane slowly _disintegrating_ around them and Jinx's _panicked_ gaze as she opens her mouth to _scream_ just as the bottom of the plane _collapses_ and he laments the fact Irish-7 will _never_ get to experience the _new_ and _brilliant_ 21st century and then- _nothing_.


	8. Blond-7

**Chapter 8**

He wakes up on a gurney in a South Korean Buddhist temple with M standing above him and a frown on her face and a mirror in her hand and he gets the strangest sense of déjà vu.

New-7 opens his mouth, swiping a tongue over different teeth and finds a strange, _grittier_, voice from deep within.

"Mission complete, ma'am".

And oh _goody_, he's English again, though more Chester than London it would seem. He would miss his Irish lilt, of course, but he'd always had this strange sense of _guilt_ working for MI6 in that body, and he doesn't like being off his game before his missions even _start _so this was probably for the best, really. With a new voice comes a new body though, and after M non-too-gently shoves the hand mirror at him, he's pleasantly surprised to note that his tall-dark-and-handsome streak has finally been broken. He's blonder and paler and _yea_, he's had blue eyes before, but never _this_ blue, and he has to admit that, after the Scotsman, this _might_ _just be_ his new favourite form.

And then M has to go and ruin it all with a solitary eyebrow raise and a sardonic "James _Blond_, is it?"

He knows that his glare isn't up to scratch, but _come on_, he's only had this body for, like, _30 seconds_, and _she_ should try regenerating after being _blown up_ on a bloody _airship_ and- _oh_.

This form was pretty sarcastic, huh?

He slowly sat up, loose sheet falling to reveal a _much_ more defined chest that he likes already, and he watches as Irish-7's scars fade with a new piercing gaze until only unblemished skin remains.

M coughs _pointedly_ and he turns back to her, unashamed, "Ma'am?"

She refrains from rolling her eyes at him, but only _just barely_, and he notices the upwards twitch of her mouth with a trained eye. They've come a long way, 007 and M, New-_New_-7 and New-_New_-M, and over time, her dislike of him had faded as his "sexist, misogynist, dinosaur relic of the Cold War" persona had disappeared.

_Her_ words, not his.

They now live in harmony with one another, or, _well_, as in harmony as 007 _could_ live with anyone, and holds her on the same pedestal as he holds Alec and Felix and Q. His... not-friends _friends_ pedestal. It's a high honour, in his books.

At She-M's impatient look, he quickly stands up to get dressed. Maybe not a not-friend _friend_, then, but definitely something akin to… _well_… probably a mother?

He pauses and decides to file _that_ particular realisation away for later thought.

* * *

Turning back to her once fully clothed he immediately frowns.

She raises a solitary eyebrow, "What is it now?"

He pouts, "I'm _short_".

"You're _barely_ under six-foot, Bond, I wouldn't exactly call that _short_".

"_Fine_ then. I'm shorter than _Irish_-7, which, by the way, was the _shortest_ I had _ever_ been, and right now, I'm _at least_ two inches below him!"

"You just survived getting exploded, falling a few hundred feet, having an actual plane literally _land_ on you... and you're _complaining_ about your new _height?_"

She-M was clearly unimpressed.

He looks away, appropriately chastised.

"… It's a bit of a sore topic for me".

"Really? I hadn't noticed" She replies sarcastically, "Now come along, Bond. I've got a traitorous MI6 section chief for you to assassinate, and _you've_ got a mission report to file".

* * *

English-7-the-second... New-New-_New_-7? Short-7? _Blond_-7? Yea, let's go with Blond-7. The bitch was right about some things, after all.

Blond-7 turns out to be _quite_ the ruthless assassin. He's the perfect killing machine, violent and cold-hearted and uncaring whenever a gun is placed in his hands, the type of executioner that would have had _Original_-M salivating at the _mouth_ to get his hands on, and no one is more surprised by the realisation that Blond-7 himself.

Because _off_ the field? Off the field, he seems almost… _normal_.

He's smart and sarcastic and charming, when he wants to be, and he can keep up with She-M in a battle of wits in a way that Irish-7 had _never_ been able to before. And James has to admit, he thinks that this guy _might_ even topple the Scotsman from first place in his favourite forms list. Blond-7 is... more _real_, somehow, more rugged and _shattered_ than the others but _still_ _unbroken_.

Then again, maybe that's just him.

He's been in the game a long _long_ time now, after all, forty years at least, and he's killed more people than he can count, has slept with probably _twice_ that number, and as each year, mission, and body passes, he only becomes more and more skilled.

He _likes_ Blond-7.

And so does Alec… after he _finally_ tells him.

* * *

Returning to England is its usual confusing affair, but the thought of seeing of his not-best-friend best friend again keeps him in high spirits. They're officially flat sharing by now, what with the double-0 never being in the country enough to justify owning a flat alone and the ex-double-0 still trying to figure out what to do with his new found freedom. So it's with a rare smile on his face and a lighter step after a truly _exhausting_ day of report after report after _report_ that he finally returns home.

* * *

Of course, what he'd failed to remember, was that the _reason_ his smiles were rare is due to his two-day-old form, and the _reason_ that his steps had been lighter, was, also, _kind of_, due to his _entirely_ new body. It's his _seventh_ reincarnation, _okay?_ And sometimes... _he_ _forgets_.

"Drop the bag and put your hands behind your head _now_".

Blond-7 frowns and turns to face his flatmate; the Russian's face hidden in the shadows of their kitchen.

"What? _That's_ the 'welcome home' I get?!"

Alec levels the gun at his head, "Drop. the bag. _now_".

"Okay, okay, _christ_ Trevelyan, what is this, a _training_ seminar?"

He lets his duffel bag fall to the floor below.

"… What did you just call me?"

What the _hell_ was he-

"_Hey!_" He snaps, "I asked you a question!"

"I called you _Trevelyan_" James forces himself to respond evenly, "That's your _name_, idiot. Alec Trevelyan, ex-006 _extraordinaire_".

"… Who the fuck sent you?"

"Oh for- _Alec_, put down the _fucking_ gun and explain to me just what the _hell_ is happening here!"

"Only my _friends_ call me Alec, _mu'dak_" He curses, "_Now who sent you?!_"

Blond-7 stares at him, or, rather, at his _shadow_, in pure disbelief. He can't remember the last time he'd been this confused. Alec _genuinely_ doesn't recognise him, how could he _not_ recognise him, he was _James Bond_, he would always _be_ James Bond _despite_ his different forms and new bodies and strange _faces_ and-

"Oh _shit_".

He knew he'd forgotten something.

* * *

He quickly turns to look at himself in the hall mirror, ignoring the Russian's warning, and stares at the blue eyes in front of him. And blond hair. And shorter frame. _Christ_, he really has to do something about his height and-

_No_, stop, this is _really_ not the time James!

He sighs and turns back to face Alec, "Okay, look, today has been _terrible_, alright? What with the meetings and the debriefings and the absolute dressing _down_ I got from M about not returning any equipment, and I sort of just... _forgot_, okay?"

He hears a harsh laugh from the shadows, "Look, buddy, I don't give a single _fuck_ how bad your day was, cause I'm sure mine was _worse_. You can't just drop a few names and expect me to believe you're an ally. Now. For the last time. Who the fucking _hell_ are you?!"

"… It's _me_, Alec" He could only reply, "James".

The gun trembles in his friend's grip.

"D-Don't, okay? Just- Just fucking _don't_".

He frowns.

Why was he-

"Don't you _dare_ waltz in here and pretend that that's even _possible_. Not after today, not after-" He let out a ragged breath, and James takes a step forward in concern, "If you even know _half_ as much as you claim, then you'd know full well that _you can't be him!_"

"Alec, listen to me, I know it doesn't make sense right now, and quite frankly _I_ wouldn't believe me either. But you _have_ to trust that I'm telling you the truth. I _am_ James Bo-"

"_James Bond is dead!_"

He stops.

"… _What?_"

"James _bloody_ Bond was declared KIA this morning" He snarls, "He's _dead_, you absolute _asshole_, so you're just gonna have to find some _other_ agent to impersonate!"

He was declared dead? But who would have- _oh_. Alec meant 'this morning' as in _England's_ 'this morning'. When She-M hadn't found him yet.

"Call her".

"… What?"

"M" He replies, "Call M and ask her about me. Or, better yet, let's go to her, right now, and she'll help me explain everything".

"Yea right. As if I'm going to fall for that" He scoffs, the gun still shaking in unsteady hands even as Blond-7 steps closer and closer until he's a mere meter away, the end of the gun just inches from his chest.

"I'm telling you the truth, Alec-"

"Don't _call_ me that!"

He holds up both hands in surrender, "Okay. _Okay_, I won't… But I _am_ James Bond, I _am_ 007, and I can _prove_ it".

"… How?"

"I know things about you that no one else does" He says simply, "I know why you quit MI6, I know about the deal you and Ourumov had, I know about your parent-"

"_WHO ARE YOU?!_"

The gun jams painfully into his chest.

Now that Alec has stepped out into the light, he can see the tears in his partners eyes, and the flushed cheeks that show he'd been crying for quite some time.

He feels his heart clench.

"It's _me_".

"It _can't_ be".

"Look, just… just lower the gun, alright? We can go to M, she knows everything, she'll back me up".

Alec glared, a hate fiercer than he'd ever seen in the man before.

"I'm not leading you to the _head_ of _MI6's_ fucking _house!_"

"You don't have to, I know where it is, I'll drive".

Another jab from the weapon.

"_What?_ And let you drag me off somewhere to pry national _secrets_ from me?"

"Then what the _hell_ do you expect me to do?!" He snaps, "We can't just take the fucking _bus!_"

"Tell me who you are!"

"I already _did!_ For _christ's_ sake, Alec, lower the _fucking_ gun!"

"I said _don't call me that!_ You- You're not _him_, you _don't get to call me that!_"

"_Lower. Your. Gun_".

"Make me, _mu'dak!_"

Well.

If _that's_ how he wants it.

* * *

Forty minutes later, and they're both standing on M's doorstep at 3am, Alec wild-eyed and gun-wielding and James bruised and bloody with a bullet caught in his hip.

She-M turns on the porch light, opens the door, and stares.

"… Why aren't I surprised?"

Blond-7 knows it's rhetorical but can't help but answer anyway.

"Because our esteemed and fearless leader of MI6 is _just_ that good?"

She takes one look at his playful grin and bloody knuckles and scowls.

"No. It's because _you're_ involved".

Alec shifts uneasily and she sighs, "Stand down, Trevelyan".

"But- But Ma'am, he's-"

"That was an _order_, agent, now _stand down!_"

He reluctantly does as told and she turns back to Blond-7, "Didn't you at least _try_ to tell him before waking _me_ up at this _ungodly_ hour?"

"Of course I did, ma'am" He replies easily, "How do you think I got shot?"

Following the She-M inside her lair is _not_ a new experience for Bond, what with him being a regular to breaking-and-entering into places he shouldn't, but it's obvious that it _is_ Alec's first time here, as he looks around in awe at the beautiful paintings and warm coloured furnishings.

She-M reappears shortly, now wearing a dressing gown, and gestures at the hall table, "Shoes off, please, and leave your weapons at the door. Coffee?"

"Got anything stronger?" Blond-7 asks, quickly making himself at home, and she glares, "You've spent one-too-many a night drunk off your _ass_ on my couch, 007, so _no_, I do _not_ have anything stronger".

From behind her, he sees Alec abruptly still at the mention of his codename.

"Not even some poor-quality whiskey? I _do_ have a bullet to dig out, after all".

He gives her the most kicked-puppy-dog look he can manage.

It doesn't work.

_As usual._

"… A cheap bottle of Merlot" She-M decides, "And that's _all_ you're getting, understand?"

But, as usual, he also knows that she'll pull out the good stuff before the night is up.

He smirks, "Perfectly, ma'am".

* * *

Alec, unsurprisingly, needs more proof than just their word before he starts to believe them, but thankfully, there's more than enough. Blond-7 wonders if he should be worried that She-M has so many files on him kept at home, but then decides he should be flattered instead. Not many can claim to be the head of MI6's biggest problem, after all. Even Alec had never been that irritating.

By the end of the night, or, well, _morning_ at this stage, he finally has the ex-agent believing him. They've got through the entire bottle of Merlot, plus another full of disgusting white wine, and half a whiskey bottle to boot. Blond-7 no longer has a bullet in his hip, thanks to She-M's deceptively strong hands and more than a few curses. And Alec reluctantly puts the gun away and then spends an hour in silence just _staring_.

Blond-7 realises that he's the first person he's ever told that actually cares about him, and the only person asides from the long linage of M's as well. It's… _different_, he realises, to not have any more secrets between them. _Personal_ secrets, at least, because every double-0 took more than a few _business_ secrets to the grave. But it's different in a _good_ way, a _nice_ way, and he can't help but wonder why he didn't do this years ago.

Irish-7 wasn't as brave as him, he guesses.

Or, at least he wasn't as foolish.

When they're leaving, M hands him a file and says the plane leaves tomorrow, but he ignores it in favour of Alec for the rest of the day. He answers every question he can, tells him of past lives and things he's never admitted out loud before, and then nods and agrees when Trevelyan says he needs time.

Time to think, time to process it all, time _away_.

So Blond-7 takes a step back from his friend, his partner, his _everything_, and steps onto a plane destined for Madagascar instead. He blows up an embassy, wins a few poker games, and enters a Texas hold-em tournament.

* * *

And then everything changes when he meets Vesper.

* * *

Beautiful, smart, _brilliant_ Vesper who makes him doubt his 007 status, makes him consider changing careers, making him think about quitting MI6 for _good_, the incredible woman holding his attention in a way only Tracy had before, the absolute _bitch_.

And like an idiot, he falls for it.

Le Chiffre becomes nothing but an irritating fly after he meets her, someone to swat down again and again until finally, he stays down for good. She leads him on a wild goose chase, telling him of the life they could have, far away from here, somewhere safe and warm and good, and he trails after her like a love sick puppy.

Trails after her despite the betrayal, despite the cheating, despite the suicidal situation he throws himself into just to save her.

_But how do you save someone who doesn't want to be saved?_

After everything's said and done, he ignores She-M's orders and Alec's worried texts and even the new Chief of Staff, Bill Tanner, a _good_ man with a dry sense of humour and a level head during a crisis and Blond-7 finds that he actually _likes_ this stranger, really _really_ likes this family man who remains loyal to _him_, not to MI6, but to _him_ throughout everything.

He tries to heal his broken heart in the only way he knows how.

By seeking _revenge_.

* * *

He tracks down Mr White, the reason behind this entire _bloody_ mission, and shoots him in the leg before locking him in the boot of the Aston Martin. He tosses him at M's feet, quits, kills a few traitors, and then gets caught up in this whole _other_ business including a girl _far too young_ to have her family dead and a psychopathic entrepreneur _obsessed_ with power.

Blond-7 sees a little bit of himself in that girl.

Of who he _is_, of who he _used_ to be, even of who he could have _become_.

He helps her, both for that reason, and also because her not-so-smart lover seems to be tied up in the same organisation as Mr White and _they need to be punished._

So, he infiltrates the eco complex, kills the chief of police for his betrayal, and single-handedly assaults the building where all the bad guys have come together, making his job a hell of a lot easier and _bloodier_ and satisfying.

The girl gets her own revenge too, after a little pep talk that was more honest than he'd have liked, and at the end of it all, looking at the destruction and chaos around him, he realises that Blond-7 likes revenge… _but he doesn't like vengeance_.

He saves the life of a Canadian Intelligence agent, painfully realising that she was about to become the next Vesper, and then decides to spare that bastard's life and let him decide his own face.

* * *

She-M finally gets through to him and cautiously says that she needs him back, that they _all_ need him back.

He says he never left, and drops Vesper's necklace in the snow, finally at peace with himself...

And then he gets shot off a moving train.


	9. Blond-7,2

**Chapter 9**

He's surprised when he wakes up in the same body after the whole "take the shot" thing. He's had worse deaths, of course, but he's also been killed by far _less_ and no everyday human could have survived the fall, surely.

Either way, he doesn't let it bother him, though he _does_ notice his far slower healing rate, so perhaps, that's the price? He gets to keep his current form in return for a temporarily normal body? If so, there were far worse trade-offs out there.

He notices a lot more aches and pains than usual, that's for sure, but it's almost… _pleasant_. For someone who feels so little, anything at all is kind of a bonus, so he almost _relishes_ in the pain, if only to experience something new.

_Psych would have a field day._

He calls himself Blond-7.2 which eventually becomes Current-7 which, _yea_, might get confusing if he ever regenerates again, but now that he knows he can sort of control it, he _thinks_ he'll be holding onto this particular form for quite some time. Then again, that's what he _always_ hopes for, so after a few days of getting drunk on a beach in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but dental-floss stitches and an aching shoulder for company, he decides to go back to Blond-7.2, at least for the time being.

Blond-7-two-point-0, or Blond-7.2 for short, was very _very_ similar to the original Blond-7, and he suspects that he only notices the subtle differences because, well, because it's _him_. He's older looking, more rugged, rougher around the edges, less classically-handsome and more rural-mansion-owner handsome.

Which, you know, is rather fitting, considering what happens next.

* * *

Blond-7.2 checks in with Alec the second he touches down in London, but his old friend is just as clueless and confused as him. MI6 was attacked, M's office exploded, and at least 30% of all staff were dead. He breaks into M's house to see for himself that she's okay, because as much as they pretend to hate one another, he really _does_ care about the old bitch and doesn't want her blown up by a vengeful psychopath. After that, he returns to Vauxhall Cross and somehow fails every single test he's given. Another, less favourable, side effect of keeping his current form.

But M clears him anyway, _because of course she does_, and he's sent off to the National Gallery to collect equipment and be reminded of just how _old_ he is. Young-Q is a surprise, both due to his age and his experience._ Or lack-thereof._ But he's sharp, sharper than his two predecessors by far, and Blond-7.2 enjoys their banter and witticisms and he's reluctantly impressed by the high-tech gear the boffin managed to come with on such short notice.

Likewise, there was Old-Moneypenny and Cute-Moneypenny and Fiery-Moneypenny and now there's…. _Eve_. He can't ever remember actually _naming_ the previous secretaries, but then again, he'd never respected them as much as he respects this new Moneypenny, all attitude and spunk and _yea_, _okay_, he _probably_ should have been pissed that she shot him off of a moving train, but, to be honest, he was more _impressed_ than anything cause it really was one _hell_ of a shot. So, she's not Agent-Moneypenny or Wrong-Shot-Moneypenny or even just Next-In-Line-To-Be-M-Moneypenny, because he knows from the second he sees her that that girl's gonna go places. So no. She's none of those. She's simply… _Eve_.

And then, it's back out into the field.

Only this time, it's personal.

* * *

For Blond-7.2 at least, he realises, remembering all too well his various rampages over the years, over Tracy's killer, Felix's attacker, and even the bastard who tried to turn Alec. Nevertheless, this time the attack hits even _closer_ to home, and he plans on making them _pay_.

He kills a few people he shouldn't, kisses a few women he _definitely_ shouldn't, and lets Raoul Silva live which he_ definitely certainly completely_ shouldn't.

By the time they realise, it's too late.

Q, _Young-Q_, is smarter than even Blond-7.2 expected, but pride comes before the fall and the genius falls head first and whole heartedly into Silva's trap. There are more attacks, more explosions, and more dead staff, and Blond-7.2 decides to cut his losses, grab M, and _run_.

* * *

You'd think after almost 100 years, he'd learn.

* * *

Young-Q and Bill, _good ole' Bill_, do as he asks, and he leads Silva on a wild chase through the Scottish highlands until-

_Home_.

Or, his house, at least.

It's been a long long time since Blond-7.2 was at Skyfall, and based on M's pointed look, _he_ knows that _she_ knows too. It wasn't exactly a place filled with happy memories for him, what with his abusive son of a bitch father and beautiful but fragile mother. It's difficult to remember what he looked like, back then, and even _more_ difficult to remember what made him turn into the silent killer that he is today.

But he doesn't regret it.

He could _never_ regret it.

Not even as he clutches M's dying body in bloody arms not twelve hours later, quietly weeping over the woman who made him whole again, who made him feel cared for and important and _worth_ something, who treated him like the son she never had.

Behind him, Skyfall burns to the ground, and with it, goes everything he used to be.

He goes to the funeral, talks to Eve and Young-Q and Alec, and meets Gareth Mallory, New-New-_New_-M, or _Not-Sure-M_ as Blond-7.2 silently dubs him, not liking how the man cares for politics more than his agents.

Then he leaves for Mexico on an unauthorised mission from She-M's posthumous message the next day.

He has unfinished business, after all.

* * *

Mr White is strangely _old_ looking, after all these years. Blond-7.2 knows he should have realised, everyone around him is ageing too, but it still makes him… _feel_ something as he sits across from the man hunched over a battered kitchen table in Austria, dying of thallium poisoning. He meets his daughter, Madeline Swann, which _really_ kicks in just how old he is because _Mr White has a now-adult child?!_

He honours the man's last request and protects her, in his own way. He doesn't know if the old man ever told Swann about him, and wonders just how to _explain_ his lack of ageing if she ever asks. She doesn't ask, however, and he doesn't point it out either. He's only ever told the various M's and Alec about his strange ability, and right now, only Alec is left. He _really_ doesn't want to explain it all again.

And then things get messy.

* * *

Oberhauser, _and isn't that a name he hasn't heard in years?_, isn't actually dead. Oberhauser _Junior_, that is, because Oberhauser _senior_, Blond-7.2's Oberhauser, _James_' Oberhauser, is long gone. Which, apparently, is the whole _reason_ behind this maniac's schemes. Junior took on various names over the years, including _Blofeld_ the absolute _bastard_, and set up SPECTRE, the main operation behind everything, and _yea_, Blond-7.2 is just that _little_ _bit_ _annoyed_ that this _entire_ fucking _disaster_ was _his_ fault to begin with.

If it weren't for him, then Oberhauser Junior wouldn't have turned to a life of crime. It wouldn't have led to Tracy's death, Vesper's death, or She-M's death. They would all still be _alive_, and Blond-7.2 would be _happy_, and Oberhauser _destroyed_ all of that all because _daddy played favourites._

Q pulls through, Bill as well of course, Eve pleasantly enough, and most surprisingly M, _Not-Sure_ M who is suddenly _very_ sure about protecting his men and saying _fuck you_ to the government. C dies and Oberhauser crashes into Westminster Bridge and once, _just this once_, Blond-7.2 says _enough is enough_. He leaves the son of a bitch for MI6 to find, lowers his weapon for what seems like the last time, and takes the Aston Martin DB5 to drive off into the sunset with.

* * *

Maybe it was time to reconsider his career choice.


	10. 007

**Chapter 10**

It doesn't last, of course.

He lasts exactly 27 days before he goes crawling back to England, back to MI6, back home.

Alec gives him a non-too-gentle slap on the shoulder, Not-Sure-M just sighs and removes his MIA status, and both Eve and Q lecture him and then welcome him back in turn. Only Bill doesn't look surprised.

* * *

He returns to work immediately, and decides to embrace the new technology side of the job, decides to move on and join the future. And for once, he feels… _settled_. At ease with him,_ at peace_, if he wanted to be dramatic. He's not just a new body and personality this time, he's more like a conglomerate of all of his past selves, like they all merged to form this latest life. He's _James_ and _James Bond_ and _007_ all at once, and for the first time ever, there's no distinction.

He's had a lot of different lives over the years,_ eight and a half to be precise_, but he prefers this one. He loves the 21st century and London. He loves his friends, his _real_ friends, and even his job that's based more on numbers than instinct now, which, _yea_, he may squabble and groan about, but it _does_ make his life easier and it _does_ save his ass a few times.

He misses M, all M's; Original-M, New-M, and most of all, She-M. And he misses Q; First-Q and R-Q. He misses all the various Moneypenny's, Old and Cute and Fiery. He even misses his past selves, all eight point five of them. He misses _just_ James, he misses James _Bond_, he misses Scottish-7 and Australian-7 and English-7 and even _Welsh_-7 and obviously he misses Irish-7 and he sort of misses Blonde7.1 too, but he thinks of him like an older version of the same model, like when keyboards took over from typewriters or electric bulbs replaced gas lights.

* * *

He looks around at his not-friends _friends_, looks at how _young_ and _bright_ and _brilliant_ they all are. He's becoming more and more sure of Not-Sure-M every second, and secretly admires the man for stepping up and at least _sort of_ filling the hole that She-M left behind her. And Q, _Young-Q_, wise beyond his years, twice as smart as First and R and at least _three_ times as young and _that boy is gonna rule the world someday_. Eve, who he calls by her first name and not Something-Moneypenny, Eve who shot him off of a bridge and laughs about it, Eve who's going to replace Mallory in a few short years, Eve who's smart enough to bide her time and learn from the best before smashing their records thoroughly and apologetically, _Eve_.

* * *

He's lived to see the rise and fall of World War 2, watched as Vietnam was invaded and the Berlin Wall fell, has seen man land on the moon and JFK assassinated. He's watched the company go from the Civil Service to the Secret Intelligence Service to MI6 to the recently appointed title of Joint Intelligence Service that threatens the continuation of the double-0 section but, well, maybe that's a _good_ thing, maybe it's _time_ for him to retire. Alec's getting old now, smart enough to get out when he could, but so is _he_, in a way. He is, after all, approaching his 100th birthday.

He glances over at the mirror, runs a hand over a roughly stubbled jaw, smirks.

He doesn't look half-bad for a 98-year-old.

Maybe he's got a few more years in him yet…

* * *

It is, after all, a Brand New World.


End file.
